


Finding Athos

by Richefic



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-14 00:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Richefic/pseuds/Richefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The return to Pinon is both better and worse than any of them could ever have expected. It is a good job that they have their brotherhood to see them through. A series of missing scenes for Season 2 Episode 5 "The Return"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Reunion. - Whatever they had expected to find when they arrived at Pinon it wasn't to see Athos, stripped to his shirtsleeves and weaponless, staggering towards them as he tried to extricate himself from the rope that bound his hands.

Porthos was off his horse and moving forward, almost before Roulette had come to a stop. Whatever they had expected to find when they arrived at Pinon it wasn't to see Athos, stripped to his shirtsleeves and weaponless, staggering towards them as he tried to extricate himself from the rope that bound his hands. Working swiftly Porthos untied the remaining knots, letting the bindings fall to the ground as he tried, and failed, to catch Athos' eye.

"You alright?"

"I'm not bleeding if that's what you mean."

Porthos snorted his opinion of that. There was a lot that could be done to a body that wasn't caused by blade or pistol. Athos being back in a place that he associated with grief and despair was hardly good for him for a start. Porthos was also pretty sure he had caught a flash of red on his wrists before Athos had swiftly pulled his cuffs over them. Thankfully it didn't seem like the skin was actually broken but it would likely leave some painful bruising. Plus Athos' unusually sluggish movements suggested he wasn't himself right now.

"Athos!"

As Aramis skidded to a stop beside him, Athos made no move to acknowledge him, his head hanging low and his arms held loose at his sides, even as he swayed slightly. Exchanging a worried look with Porthos, Aramis reached out and gently took Athos' face in both hands, his brow furrowing with concern as he realised his skin was cool and clammy despite the heat of the day.

"Athos, look at me.  _No, Athos_ look at me," He tapped the man's cheek gently when his eyes slid away. "When did you last take a drink?"

"I am not drunk," Athos informed him tersely. "If I were I would feel considerably better than this."

"I am sure you would, my friend," Aramis said kindly, deliberately ignored his brusqueness. It was obvious that Athos was feeling utterly wretched. He looked pale and tired. His eyes were unfocused and he was holding himself in that careful way that Aramis had come to recognise to mean that he was somehow injured. "But I meant water. In this heat a body can quickly suffer badly from the lack of it."

"Here, have some of mine," D'Artagnan hastened up holding a water skin. He offered it to Athos who took it with a shaking hand, looked at it balefully for a moment and then simply poured the entire contents over his head. D'Artagnan sighed as Athos passed the empty container back. "Or I suppose that works too."

"See to Bertrand," Athos managed, swallowing thickly, as he felt his stomach curl sourly. Despite Aramis' hands steadying him, he almost toppled over as he tried to indicate the man lying on the ground behind him. "He tried to intervene on my behalf and was whipped for his pains."

"So that was a whipping we heard." Porthos said grimly.

"Don't worry about Bertram," Aramis soothed, looking over Athos shoulder. "He's in safe hands. Treville's gone to help him."

"Treville's here?" Athos looked blank for a moment and then, even though none of them had thought it possible, he went even paler. "And the King too? Dear God is there no end to her revenge? It's not enough that she shames me in front of the court in Paris but now she has led the King and his entire retinue here to see me utterly disgraced."

"Hey, hey," Unable to bear his friend's obvious distress, d'Artagnan stepped closer, resting a hand lightly between his shoulders. "It's not like that. This isn't Milady's doing. At least, I don't think it is. She's back in Paris. Treville didn't come with the King. Louis revoked his Captaincy, remember? He rode with us."

"As a comrade," Aramis put in, hoping to raise a smile. "Or so he tells us. He was worried about you. We all were. We didn't know you were planning on leaving Paris."

"I wasn't," Athos slurred slightly. "I didn't leave."

"Something's not right," d'Artagnan said decisively, waving an arm at Athos as if to illustrate his point. "He's really not himself."

"And he's not making a whole lot of sense either." Porthos agreed.

"A man's fighting instinct can keep him on his feet beyond what you would think the body could endure. But it wanes swiftly once the immediate danger is past." Athos reminded them. "Let's get some water in him. See if that improves matters. Then I'll take a proper look at him."

He looked at Porthos over the top of Athos' head and between the two of them they helped him over to the well and propped him on the edge. Without needing to be asked Porthos sent the bucket down to draw up some fresh water. D'Artagnan filled up his water skin and offered it to Athos who blinked at it for a long moment and then reached out a hand, only to miss by a mile, his fingers closing on empty air.

"That ain't good." Porthos said what they were all feeling.

"Here, let me help."

His expression soft with concern d'Artagnan held the water skin to Athos' lips helping him to drink. Wordlessly, Porthos dipped his bandanna in and then placed it carefully on the back of Athos' neck. The fact that Athos meekly submitted to their ministrations without a word only added to their concern.

Aramis looked sideways at Porthos his eyes dark with worry.

"See if you can find out if he hit his head, can you?"

"Oi, does anyone here know if this man hit his head?" Porthos hollered loudly at the assembled villagers.

Athos jerked violently at the unexpected noise, the look of excruciating pain which briefly chased across his features confirming Aramis suspicions of some as yet unseen injury, before his eyes simply rolled back in his head and he passed out. Only Aramis' quick reflexes stopped him from toppling backwards down into the well. With a swift tug he pulled him into to chest, only to find himself with a large armful of utterly boneless and rather unwieldy Musketeer.

"Alright," He soothed the unconscious form as he tried to heave him upright. "It's alright. I've got you."

"Really?" d'Artagnan glared at Porthos, hands on hips.

"Sorry," Porthos grimaced, realising Aramis had meant him to ask around. "Wasn't thinking."

"Baron Renard's soldiers set upon him," One of the villagers stepped forward. "Then his son, Edmond struck him across the back with his pistol. The Comte hit his head as he fell to the ground. And then my Lord Edmond kicked him in the ribs."

"Kicking a man when he's down," d'Artagnan scoffed. "That's brave of him."

"Gentlemen?" Aramis asked as he peered through Athos dark curls, struggling to support his weight. "A little help here?"

"I thought you said you had 'im?" Porthos smirked.

Even so, he stepped forward obligingly, tipping Athos easily over his shoulder and striding purposefully towards the cool and shade of the small Inn. Around him the villagers' expressions showed a mixture of shock and disapproval.

"I'm not sure the locals approve of you hefting their noble Comte about like a sack of grain." Aramis murmured as he walked alongside.

"Best way to revive a person is to get the blood flowing back towards the head, ain't that what you always say?" Porthos was ever practical. "I'm doing him a service."

"True, but," Aramis lowered his voice, as he went ahead to open the door and let Porthos pass. "It is a  _little_  undignified."

"But tying 'im to a chair, that's alright is it?" Porthos observed darkly, coming to a dead halt, his eyes fixed on the very obviously placed seat, with its coils of rope still snaking around its feet. "What the 'ell has been going on here?"

"What's happened?" Treville appeared in the doorway, with Bertram and some of the other villagers crowding after. "What's the matter with Athos?"

"That rather depends," Aramis replied as he swiftly moved a few cups out of the way so Porthos could lay Athos down flat on the rough wooden table. He watched with approval as Porthos carefully placed him on his side to protect him from further injury to what he strongly suspected was his abused back and damaged ribs and gently drew his arm and leg up to keep him stable. "A moment Captain, if you please."

"Of course," Treville nodded his permission.

Aramis was swift but thorough, checking Athos' pupils, gently passing his hands over his ribs to feel for breaks, lifting his collar to peer at the line of bruising blossoming along his back, running his fingers through his hair, looking for contusions. Then with a frown he checked his pupils again before looking over at Bertrand.

"What did you use to drug him?"

"He was drunk," Bertrand protested. "Passed out from drink they said."

"Athos has been missing for more than two days," Treville put in. "You told me he just woke up this morning."

"Athos wouldn't be affected that badly by a few bottles of wine." D'Artagnan added, moving to stand protectively in front of his best friend, his hand unconsciously hovering over the small scar on his side . "Believe me, I know."

"It'd take a whole wagonload," Porthos agreed, moving slightly so he stood shoulder to shoulder with d'Artagnan, blocking the villagers' view of Athos. "So, either you gave him more on the way or you slipped him something. If you want our help you'd best tell us the truth."

"It was just a few herbs, we couldn't risk him waking up on the journey and raising the alarm," A man hovering by the doorway spoke up, his face creased with worry. "And .."

"And ..?" Porthos pressed, with just a hint of danger. "What else?"

"The bottles of brandy we used to spike his wine." The man added miserably.

"Dear God," Aramis scrubbed a hand across his face. "And in all that time did you even think to give him any food? Or water? It's a miracle you  _didn't_  kill him. Show me these herbs."

Reluctantly the man pulled a small bag out of his jerkin. Aware that every eye in the room was on him Aramis tipped the leaves into his palm and crushed one of them with his thumb, before bringing it up to his nose and inhaling carefully.

"Well?" Porthos shifted impatiently, his brusque tone making his worry clear.

"They're harmless enough, a simple soporific," Aramis fixed the man with a disapproving look. "But even the most ordinary substances can overtax the body if taken to excess. You should have been more careful."

"I give you my word, I knew nothing of this," Bertrand looked stricken. He came forward. "He was always such a good Lord, a man who truly cared for his people. We could not understand his silence in the face of our pleas. We felt sure that if he only knew of our suffering he would return and take up his rightful place as the Comte de la Fere."

"Yeah," Porthos murmured sotto voice to no-one in particular. "I don't see that happening anytime soon."

"You will have your chance to put your case to him, but for now he needs rest," Treville spoke up. Aramis and d'Artagnan exchanged an amused look at their 'comrade's' natural inclination to take command. "First we need to care for those wounded by the Baron's men. Yourself included, Bertram. And then make a plan to get your daughter back."

"What if the Baron returns before our Lord wakes?" Another man demanded.

"He won't," Treville assured him. "Renard wasn't expecting any resistance. First of all, he'll wait to see if we leave. Then he'll need time to re-group and make a new plan. Granted there's still a few hours of daylight left. But he'll most likely use that to gather intelligence. He won't launch an attack until he has a better idea of what he's facing. Now come, let us see to the wounded."

The villagers seemed grateful to have someone take charge. They did as they were bid and followed Treville out into the square where he could be heard setting a rota for a watch and organising the fetching of water and bandages.

"Will he be alright?" d'Artagnan asked quietly.

He fought to keep his tone matter of fact. They were all of them soldiers. It shouldn't matter that he had never actually seen Athos seriously injured before. Nor that this had happened, not in the service of the crown, but in a place that should be home to him, should have been  _safe._ Not even that he could not begin to imagine a future that did not have Athos in it.

"What he said." Porthos said gruffly.

"He needs rest," Aramis ran a hand through his hair. "We've all worried that he hasn't been eating or sleeping well since the King took Milady as his Mistress. Not to mention that he has been drinking heavily again. Being Athos, of course, he's still managed to do his duty admirably, but even his body has its limits. The combination of a sleeping draught, a lot of strong drink and a blow to the head would test even the strongest of men." His eyes fixed on the wall. "We just need to give him time to recover."

"Hey, why don't you go fetch a couple of blankets?," Porthos butted d'Artagnan's shoulder fondly. "We'll make him nice and comfy and you can sit with him for a bit. Keep him company, eh?"

"I have just the thing," D'Artagnan smiled, as he headed towards the door, throwing over his shoulder as he went. "I brought it specially."

Aramis shook his head fondly as he took Porthos' damp bandanna off Athos' neck and gently began to wipe down his face. He had absolutely no idea what d'Artagnan was talking about but there was absolutely nothing the young Gascon wouldn't do for Athos, even, much to Aramis and Porthos' admiration, incurring his displeasure to speak a few home truths if he felt that his best friend was being too hard on himself.

His hand faltered in its ministrations. If Athos died d'Artagnan would be inconsolable. God help them, they all would.

"Alright," Porthos' hand closed over his from behind, gently taking the strip of cloth and turning him by the shoulder so that he was forced to meet his eyes. "What is it?"

"There's no way to know anything for sure until Athos wakes up," Aramis hedged.

"Nah, there's something. Something you don't want the lad to know. But this is me, so, out with it."

"There's no contusion on the back of his head," Aramis admitted. "Those are always the most dangerous kind of head injuries. It means the swelling has gone inwards putting pressure on the brain. Taken with the effects of the wine and the drugs there's no way of telling how serious it might be until he wakes up." Aramis swallowed hard and added the hard truth of it. "Always presuming, of course, that he does wake up."

"So, that's how it is." Porthos said quietly, gazing down at Athos' still form. "What can we do?"

"I don't know," Aramis' eyes filled with tears. "Porthos, I don't  _know_  how to help him."

"Hey now, none of that," Porthos chided, he wrapped his arms around Aramis, trying to hug some hope into his friend. "Athos, would never give up on us, so we 'ave to keep strong for him, yeah?"

Even so, Porthos had to blink hard against a swell of tears when he felt how desperately Aramis clung to him, burying his face in his broad chest. This really was  _bad_  then. They truly could lose Athos. Then, as if realising that he couldn't afford to lose himself to grief and fear, Aramis abruptly pulled away, keeping his back to Porthos as he fought to master his emotions.

"Is there  _anything_ we can do?" Porthos needed to know.

He fully expected Aramis to tell him to pray. He knew that his brother believed deeply and took great comfort from his faith. Porthos was more of a God helps those who help themselves type. But he would willingly pray for Athos from dawn till dust if there was a chance it might save him. The former Comte de la Fere might believe his soul was already gone to the devil, but that didn't mean his friends would give up on him without a fight.

Instead Aramis surprised him.

"He's going to be hungry when he wakes up," He looked round at Porthos, with a brave attempt at one of his more incorrigible smiles. "You could make soup?"


	2. The Cloak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is a fine cloak,” Athos ran his fingers speculatively over the sleeve. The soft wool and really rather excessive number of buttons spoke of a quality garment kept with loving care. Far better than anything he would have expected the former Gascon farm boy to own. He raised a gently inquisitive brow. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you wear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My feeling is the that choice to go with the cloak as a costume for Athos in this episode was to give him a slightly more 'noble' air - but also to physically set him apart from the other musketeers - without his leathers and pauldron perhaps being a bit less "Athos" and a bit more "Olivier".
> 
> But I wanted to find a way to bring him back into the fold. So, this is the result.

Athos’ first thought was that his mouth felt as dry as dust. That in itself wasn’t unusual. When he had drunk to excess he rarely even recalled, never mind acted upon, Aramis’ sage advice to take at least a cup or two of water before retiring. Although, the fact that he appeared to be lying on a table was rather more unexpected. However, he was pleased to discover that the vicious pounding in his head had receded to a dull sort of throb.

For some reason he knew that this was important. But he couldn’t for the life of him recall why.

“Hey,” D’Artagnan’s voice said gently from his left. “You awake again?”

Athos rolled his head slightly so he that could see the younger man. Realising as he did so that a blanket, which smelt comfortingly of horse, had been folded up for a makeshift pillow and a surprisingly soft, dark blue, blanket was draped over him, although, it was a little short, so that his feet stuck out somewhat at the end, which probably explained why no one had bothered to take off his boots.

In the flickering candle light d’Artagnan looked exhausted. His eyes were dark and serious and his features lined with worry, so that he looked far older than his years.

Athos frowned. He didn’t seem to be bleeding. No bones appeared broken. Merely some soreness and he suspected some spectacular bruising, nothing to explain why d’Artagnan looked like he had not slept.  

“I was awake ..” He coughed a little over his dry throat and the last word came out as something of a croak. “before?”   

“A few times,” d’Artagnan told him with a small smile, as he reached over and picked up a cup, helping Athos to drink. “Each time you’ve been awake a little longer.”

“It was daylight last time,” Athos realised. He tried to blink the elusive memory into focus. “Porthos told me .. something?”

He looked to d’Artagnan for clarification, but the Gascon shook his head regretfully. “Aramis says it’s better if we let you piece things together in your own time. Do you know where you are?”

That question provoked a kaleidoscope of memories, none of them good, each swirling and vying for his attention. He resisted the urge to bang his head against the table. He doubted it would help matters.

“Pinon.” He sighed. “Renard.”

“That’s right,” d’Artagnan’s face brightened with something like hope. “That’s the first time you’ve remembered Renard. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?”

“As oppose to what?” Athos asked curiously.

He was not prepared for the way d’Artagnan’s face fell, nor for how he was suddenly reluctant to meet his gaze. Realising that the young man’s throat was working convulsively, a sure sign he was trying to hold back tears, Athos could not help but feel he was missing something important.

“D’Artagnan?”

It took a little more effort than he expected to lift his arm and he found himself patting rather clumsily at d’Artagnan’s shoulder, rather than the firm grip he had intended. But the attempt at comfort seemed to rally the younger man. D’Artagnan swiped impatiently at his tears and turned back to him with a rueful smile.

“Sorry, I’m supposed to be the one looking after you,” He gave Athos’ hand a grateful squeeze and then placed it gently back on his stomach, before changing the subject. “Aramis said the next time you woke up you should try to eat something. Porthos made soup.”

“Soup?” Athos’ lips quirked. “Not mushroom, I hope. I don’t think my head could stand the visions just now.”

“No,” d’Artagnan grinned. “It’s onion. I had some earlier. It’s good. I could fetch you a bowl?”  

“Porthos made onion soup?” Athos went very still.

* * *

 

_“You look like hell.”_

_Slumped over the table in the Garrison courtyard Athos could barely raise the energy to life his head, but he felt a tired smile tug at his lips at the affection underlying the blunt words as Porthos dropped into the seat opposite him. His face creased with concern._

_“It’s merely dirt,” Athos assured him. “We were required to take a small detour.”_

_Porthos huffed a small laugh at the significant understatement. Only Athos would call being attacked and forced off the roads, required to travel hard and fast over rough ground, barely sleeping in an effort to keep one step ahead of their pursuers, frequently going hungry as they tried to eek out rations meant for a few days over a much longer period, before they eventually arrived back at the Garrison more than a week overdue, a ‘small detour’._

_“Gave us a right scare you did,” Porthos scolded. His tone was mild but his eyes were serious. “Aramis and I ain’t minded to let you out of our sight ever again.”_

_Athos ducked his head a little at the fond sentiment. Bastian and Le Blanc were fine Musketeers who had done their duty admirably under difficult conditions. But Athos had found himself thinking wistfully, of Porthos’ gruff kindness and Aramis’ unrelenting good humour. The two men had proved a balm to his battered soul and he had felt their absence like an ache._

_“I would not willingly subject any man to such hardships,” He managed. “But your company was sorely missed.”_

_“I’m guessing it was pretty rough, huh?” Porthos’ large, warm, hand settled gently over his own, as if to protect him from all the ills of the world. “How long since you last ate anything?”_

_There had been no time to hunt or fish. No chance to call at a farm for provision, even the bounty of the countryside had been denied them as their pursuers relentlessly forced them onwards. Rations meant for three days simply could not be stretched to providing sustenance for a week or more._

_“Two days.” Athos admitted._

_“Two days with nothing at all and I bet you were giving yourself short rations before that so the others could eat,” Porthos said astutely. “Would you mind a bit of friendly advice?”_

_“Not at all.”_

_“Probably best not to eat that,” Porthos nodded at Athos’ fully laden plate. “After so long without a proper meal your stomach won’t manage it, either you’ll spend all night throwing it back up or you’ll be doubled over with stomach cramps.”_

_“I see,” Athos considered that. Truth be told the smell of the rich food_ was _making him feel a little nauseous. And he knew enough about Porthos’ background to realise the man was probably speaking from bitter experience. “What would you suggest?”_

__“Your body is all but spent. It needs something light to build your strength back up, gradual like,"_ Porthos said decisively. “Some eggs perhaps or maybe some soup.”_

_It turned out that Serge had nothing like that to hand. Musketeer tastes tending towards more hearty fare. Porthos had scowled and clicked his tongue before pushing Athos into a chair and tucking a blanket around him, rather firmly Athos thought, feeling slightly startled, but oddly touched by the gesture._

_“I’d take you to a tavern I know but you already look done in,” Porthos told him. “You take a nap and this’ll be ready when you wake up.”_

_Athos had half-imagined he was too hungry to sleep, given the gnawing pain in his belly, but lulled by the warmth of the fire and the soft sounds Porthos made, humming to himself as he moved around the kitchen, slicing the onions finely into similar sized pieces so they would cook evenly, slowly, gently, caramelising them, to bring out the flavour, adding the garlic and wine and a good stock and patiently letting it simmer to perfection, he must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew he was looking down at the bowl of onion soup in his lap, as Porthos pressed a spoon into his hand._

_Athos thought it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted._

_“You’re only saying that because you’re half-starved.” Porthos laughed when he told him so._

_“I think it has more to do with an ingredient which has rarely featured in the dishes placed before me.” Athos admitted quietly._

_“Get over,” Porthos shook his head. “There’s nothing fancy in this.”_

_“I rather meant,” Athos could feel the tips of his ears turning pink and he worried he was making a sentimental fool of himself. “Never mind, thank you for your kindness. I’ll bid you a good night.”_

_And that might have been that, as he forced himself to his feet and headed a little unsteadily towards the door. But when he had almost reached the threshold Porthos’ voice stopped him._

_“Athos, is it so hard for you to believe that you’re loved?”_

_He had been forced to close his eyes against the wash of painful memories and could only manage one single, solitary word in reply, utterly raw in its honesty._

_“Yes.”_

_“I see,” Porthos said levelly. Then his footsteps crossed the room until he was standing beside him. He put his arm around Athos’ back and then lifted Athos’ arm so it was draped across his broad shoulders. “Well, I guess we’ll have to work on that, eh?”_

* * *

 

“He was worried about you,” d’Artagnan bit his lip. “We all were.”

Athos frowned as he took in the Gascon’s troubled expression. Becoming more aware of his surroundings he glanced to his right and saw Aramis sitting slumped over the table in his shirtsleeves, his face lined with worry even as he slept, resting his forehead on Athos’ thigh.  Athos’ brow furrowed, instinctively knowing something wasn’t quite right with that picture, something he understood should worry him, but try as he might the reason escaped him.

Looking to his left he wasn’t surprised to see Porthos with his chair tipped back against the wall and his stocking feet resting snugly on Athos’ calf as he snored softly. Athos smiled fondly wishing, not for the first time, that he could emulate his friend’s knack of sleeping anytime, anywhere. But then Porthos turned his head slightly so that the candle light fell across his face and Athos could clearly see the dried tracks of tears on his cheeks, as if he had been crying in his sleep.

Worried now, Athos pushed himself up to a sitting position, resolutely ignoring the muted protests of his head and body, only to feel something unfamiliar slide across his chest. He felt a flash of fear, s _urely not?_ But a second glance at Aramis confirmed his suspicions, even before he carefully pushed down the soft woollen blanket to see the man’s beloved gold crucifix hanging around his own neck.

“He never said he had given you that.” D’Artagnan sounded a bit shaken.

“Exactly how long was I unconscious?” Athos managed.

“Too long,” D’Artagnan told him, his heart in his eyes.

Athos was fairly certain that he didn’t want to dwell too much on the idea that he friends had clearly feared he was on the brink of death. He couldn’t say he felt particularly _good._ But he could discern no real cause for alarm. He was certain that he could fight if he had to and ..

His head snapped up.

“My sword.”

“It’s alright, the villagers kept it safe,” d’Artagnan assured him. He nodded to the wall behind him and turning his head Athos could see the familiar hilt propped up beside d’Artagnan’s own. “Aramis checked the blade over himself.”

“I shall remember to thank him later.”

Now that he was sitting up, Athos decided he might as well see what else he might accomplish. Swinging his feet around, the bench d’Artagnan was sitting on made a convenient footstool, as he perched on the edge of the table and took a moment to assess his situation.

“Do you have my jacket?” He plucked at the cloth now pooling in his lap. “Or must I go about wrapped in this blanket like an invalid?”

“Um, that’s not a blanket,” d’Artagnan looked torn between amusement and a faint concern that Athos’ facilities were still impaired. He flipped up an edge to show a row of large, ornate, buttons. “It’s a cloak.”

“So, it is,” Athos frowned at it. He didn’t recognise it.

“I didn’t know how things might be when we found you,” d’Artagnan said by way of explanation. “But we had already invaded your privacy by looking at the letters. It didn’t seem right to go digging around in your press just to bring you a clean shirt.”

Athos appreciated the sentiment. In common with most of the regiment he used his press to store his most personal items, as well as his valuables, in addition to his clothes. As soldiers it was generally the only lockable space they had.

“But I remembered how grateful I was for your cloak when I was taken captive at Calais,” d’Artagnan coloured a little at the memory, but forged on bravely. “I wanted to be prepared.”

Athos felt a flash of surprise. D’Artagnan had been barely conscious when he had gently wrapped his naked body in his boat cloak and carried him out of that warehouse in Calais, the blood of the man who had beaten him still fresh on his blade. He hadn’t thought d’Artagnan would remember any of it.

Now Athos imagined the younger man, haunted by visions of finding him, similarly bruised and battered, or perhaps shaking with fever, carefully folding up the cloak and packing it into his saddle bag, in the hope of being able to bring a little comfort to the man he loved as a brother.

The thoughtfulness of that act almost undid him.

“It is a fine cloak,” Athos ran his fingers speculatively over the sleeve. The soft wool and really rather excessive number of buttons spoke of a quality garment kept with loving care. Far better than anything he would have expected the former Gascon farm boy to own.  He raised a gently inquisitive brow. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you wear it.”

 “It was my father’s,” d’Artagnan surprised him. “The one he kept for best. He was carrying it in his saddle bag when we rode to Paris to petition the King. He planned to wear it to the Palace. It is the only thing, besides his sword that I have left of him.” 

Athos stiffened. He was acutely aware that his shirt was already streaked with dirt and sweat. He also had a dreadful suspicion that his bladder might have betrayed him at least once whilst he was unconscious. Although any direct evidence had blessedly long since been dried he was hardly fragrant. And certainly not fit to be wearing such a precious garment.

“Don’t,” d’Artagnan forestalled any protest as he simply picked up the cloak and helped Athos slide his arms into it, carefully smoothing the soft material across his back. “It wasn’t doing anyone any good just folded up in a press.”

Athos’ look said very clearly that d’Artagnan had spent the early part of their acquaintance in a well-worn leather cloak which, in Athos’ opinion had been barely fit for purpose, his pride causing him to resist all of his friend’s efforts to provide something better, when all the time _he_ could have been getting good use out of this. Clearly, he had cherished its sentimental value too much to sully it.

“Please, just wear it,” d’Artagnan gave one of those gentle lop-sided smiles that Athos found himself all but powerless to refuse. “It will make me feel better?”

“Very well,” Athos conceded.

He pulled the cloak a little more firmly around him, pleased to find that the slight tremors in his hands did not prevent him from managing the, admittedly unusually large, buttons. That done he steeled himself against the inevitable discomfort and forced stiff and aching muscles to do his will until he was standing up on his own two feet.

“Alright?” d’Artagnan asked quietly.

“I .. believe so,” Athos nodded. He smoothed a hand across the folds of cloth. “It’s a good fit.”

“I’m glad,” d’Artagnan tipped his head on one side. “Do you think you could manage some of that soup now?”

Without waiting for an answer he moved towards the fire, ladling out two bowlfuls and bringing them back to the table. He gave Athos an encouraging smile, as he passed him a spoon, before sitting down opposite to dig into his own meal.

“D’Artagnan?”

The Gascon stilled, with his spoon in mid-air, glancing up from his bowl to see what Athos wanted. Rather than speak his brother simply reached across the table to cup his cheek, a tender, intimate, gesture that was usually reserved for when d’Artagnan was sick or badly wounded.

“Thank you.” Athos said sincerely.

“That’s not the only thing we brought with us from Paris,” D’Artagnan grinned. “Just wait ‘till you see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The question of Athos' missing jacket, (and more importantly his pauldron), will be returned to!


	3. Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aramis,” Athos turned his head to look up at him, the slow realisation of the root of his brother’s stark fear uncoiling like a snake in his gut. “I didn’t hit my head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting. I just discovered that my employer wants me to go and work abroad from a couple of months, which is both exciting and a little bit terrifying. But I am on vacation in a week or so updates will be quicker.

Athos didn’t remember falling asleep at the table, but the next time he woke his face was pressed into the crook of his elbow and Aramis was standing by the fireplace, holding a tin plate with two slices of buttered bread, in the one hand and a large spoon in the other hand, as he peered into a pot of boiling water.

Raising his head Athos winced at the bright sunshine was streaming through the windows. Make that the windows, the open door, and every gap it could find between the rough-hewn planks that made up the walls and _damned_ if it didn’t seem like there were more gaps than wall. He groaned loudly at all that brightness piercing his brain, slamming his eyes shut and burying his head back in his folded arms for good measure.

“Shoot me.” He muttered.

“Now _there’s_ the Athos we all know and love,” Aramis’ voice said cheerfully, before his tone softened into something sincere and fond. “It’s good to see you feeling better, my friend.”

_“Sit up Olivier. Keep your back straight,” His Governess scolded sharply. “Head up, chin out, eyes front. These people look to you to lead them. You must always be mindful of your posture. De la Feres do_ not _slouch.”_

Very carefully Athos lifted his head, opened his eyes to merest slits and scowled at his brother across the table.

“ _This_ is better?”

“Markedly so,” Aramis used the spoon to fish an egg out of the pot and place it on the plate. He kept his attention on the pot and his tone light. “The first time you woke you didn’t remember who you were. The second time you could not recall who we were.”

“I .. don’t remember that.” Athos admitted.

“Probably for the best,” Aramis acknowledged as a second egg joined the first and he brought his breakfast over to the table.

The third time, Athos had woken he had recalled all too much about where he was and what had happened to him in this place. Worn down beyond endurance, adrift on a sea of pain and confusion, his usual defences were utterly stripped away, Athos had sobbed like a child in his arms, clutching at the front of Aramis’ shirt as if it was his only anchor in a maelstrom of pain. Aramis had acted on instinct, pulling him close, wrapping both arms around him, as he rocked him gently.  He had rested his chin on Athos’ bowed head as he murmured a soft liturgy of prayers, interspersed with words of comforting nonsense. Anything to reassure his brother that he was _here_ and whatever Athos had to face he would _not_ do it alone.

Aramis knew that it didn’t matter that Athos clearly did not consciously remember any of that. The agony his brother had revealed had been red raw and _very_ real. For all that Athos usually buried it under layers of strength and courage, that pain was not diminished in the slightest for not being daily apparent. Aramis was slightly ashamed of himself for not recognising the full depth and extent of it before, although, in his defence, Athos _had_ been at pains to keep it from them.

“Is there anything to drink?” Athos asked, managing to prop himself up on his elbow and look around without much hope.

“There’s water.”

Aramis nodded at the jug in the middle of the table that Athos had pointedly ignored. Athos scrubbed a hand over his face. If he wanted wine he would have to go to the house. But the villagers would have beer and if he recalled correctly Bertram brewed raspberry brandy. As the Comte of these lands he would only need to ask.

The cup of water made a demanding little _thunk_ , as Aramis set it in front of him.

“Drink it this time. Don’t bathe in it.”

The lingering concern in Aramis’ eyes was enough for Athos to swallow down any objections. Instead, he raised the rough-hewn vessel in a little toast, pleased to find that his hand no longer shook   

“If you insist,” He drawled, in an attempt to ease the tension apparent in Aramis’ shoulders. “I dare say it would take rather more than a cupful to wash away the stink of me at present.”

“We’re in the countryside, it’s nothing but smells. I doubt anyone will notice,” Aramis countered expansively, picking up a piece of his bread and butter and taking a bite.

Athos’ mouth unexpectedly watered at the sight. Thinking back, apart from that single bowl of Porthos’ soup, he couldn’t actually remember the last time he had eaten, a feeling re-enforced by the long and audible growl which now emanated from his mid-section.

_On high days and holidays dining table had groaned under the weight of twelve or more courses, pates, pies, cheeses, game of all conceivable size and shape, creations in aspic, custard, confections made from marzipan, each richer and more extravagant than the last. Afterwards, he and Thomas would lie in the long grass, clutching their bulging stomachs and vowing that they were never, ever, going to be able to eat a single thing, ever again._

He blinked at the sound of a tin plate being slid across the table and looked down to see that Aramis had passed him the untouched portion of his meal. He regarded the simple slice of bread and butter and single boiled egg and felt like he had been given a banquet.

“Thank you.”

“It’s good to see you with an appetite,” Aramis’ smile was a little forced. “D’Artagnan was quite beside himself with worry over you.”

“Merely, d’Artagnan?” Athos said mildly, as he bit off half the egg.

“He’s young,” Aramis refused to be drawn. “He has yet to be exposed to the hardships of a campaign and you know how he dotes on you.”

Athos regarded his brother silently for a long moment, before he slowly put down the piece of bread and butter in his hand and very carefully removed the ornate gold crucifix from around his neck and held it out, nestled in the palm of his hand.  

Aramis closed his eyes briefly before he reached out and took it back, looping the Queen’s gift around his own neck. They both knew he would not have parted with the precious token unless he genuinely feared for Athos’ life.

“Thank you.” Athos intoned gravely.

“You’re welcome,” Aramis would not meet his eyes. “I’m glad it kept you safe.”

“You thought I was dying.” Athos said quietly.

He hadn’t wanted to press d’Artagnan for the details of it. True, the young Gascon was as brave as anyone Athos had ever met. But he had never seen his mentor wounded before, much less hovering on the brink of death, and the experience had clearly shaken him. Aramis was a seasoned soldier. A man who had seen more than his share of mortal injuries, who had nursed fellow musketeers through fatal illness, if he had feared for his brother’s life it was with good reason.

Athos was curious to find out why.

“May I?” Aramis asked instead, nodding at his torso.

Athos inclined his head in permission, knowing his friend would not rest until he had checked over his injuries. He sat as still as he could, striving to keep his breathing even as Aramis carefully slipped first the cloak and then his shirt down his arms, unwrapping his ribs and carefully palpitating his side, trying as best he could to steer clear of the redness and bruising. Then he peered at his back and hissed through his teeth at whatever he saw there, before applying some sort of salve and painstakingly re-binding his ribs, not tight enough to hinder his movement but enough to provide support. He unwrapped his wrists and applied more salve before deciding to leave the bruising open to the air. Then, somewhat to Athos surprise, he began running his fingers gently through his hair. 

“You’ll live,” Aramis pronounced at last, his clear relief bleeding through from under the cheerful bravardo. “Although it was a close run thing for a while there, head injuries are tricky things.”

“Aramis,” Athos turned his head to look up at him, the slow realisation of the root of his brother’s stark fear uncoiling like a snake in his gut. “I didn’t hit my head.”

“You didn’t .. ?” Aramis froze, his eyes going very wide, before he shook his head, obviously convinced that Athos simply did not remember the course of events.  “The villagers told us you were knocked to the ground.”

“Aramis, please,” Athos rolled his eyes fondly. “I have trained with Porthos long enough. I know how to fall so I don’t crack my skull.”

“Of course you do,” Aramis looked positively weak with relief. “No wonder there was no contusion on the back of your head.”

Bending forward his swiftly pressed his lips to Athos’ temple, an un-looked for expression of such tenderness that Athos was flooded with warmth, a feeling that only intensified, when Aramis dropped onto the bench beside him, placing his arm around his shoulder, it’s heavy warmth a balm to his battered soul.

_“Olivier, no,” His mother’s voice scolded, as he took the infant Thomas in his lap and cuddled him close. “Not in front of our guests. You are the Vicomte. You have a position to uphold. Keep that kind of behaviour in the nursery, where it belongs.”_

Aramis had always been rather determined in his affections. Never seeming to notice in those early days when Athos had stiffened uncertainly under his touch. Now Athos all too gladly allowed himself the luxury of sinking into his embrace. The ready comfort of his brothers one of the many blessings he had found in this unconventional life.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” Aramis murmured softly. “You barely eat enough to keep body and soul together and you have been drinking more again. We all know the cause of it. It’s no easy thing to see your wife installed at the Palace, as the Mistress of the King. But it’s eating at you and we don’t know how to help.”

Athos stilled. He had rather assumed that Aramis was too pre-occupied with the Dauphin, d’Artagnan too busy pining over Constance and Porthos too caught up in his rift with the Captain to notice anything at all. It seemed he had been wrong.

“You and I have had Palace duty rather more often than not of late,” Aramis continued, as he gently ran his fingers through Athos hair, petting him like a cat, aloof and needy at the same time. “I hope that is not for my sake. Not if it causes you pain.”

Athos’ silence spoke volumes.

Aramis sighed. For all his wise words that the Dauphin was not, and could never be, Aramis’ son, he should have realised that Athos’ tender heart would not be able to deny his brother any opportunity to see the infant he so obviously adored. No matter what the danger to himself. Or what it cost him to be so close to the woman who had once been his world as she cavorted with the King.

“Oh Athos,” Aramis sighed, all sincere gratitude and fond exasperation. “I swear, I would never do anything to put the Queen, the Dauphin, or you in danger. I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“The palace gossip says otherwise.” Athos said drily.

“The lovely Maurgauritte is the Dauphin’s governess, not his nursemaid,” Aramis corrected. “And our relationship is nothing of any consequence, a mere dalliance if you will. We’re just having a little fun.”

“Does she know that?”

His heart sank when Aramis blinked, clearly a little startled by the very idea that Marguerite might consider their relationship in a more serious light.

“’Mis,” Athos sighed.

“She does, of course she knows,” Aramis rallied. “A woman of her rank and status would never look seriously at a common soldier like me. In time her family will use her advancement into the Dauphin’s household to find her a worthy husband.”

_“Olivier, this is Catherine,” His father’s tone carried a wealth of expectation._

_Feeling stiff and awkward in his new doublet with it’s scratchy lace collar the young Vicomte had bowed politely, as he had been taught, to the teenaged girl. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but her eyes were cool and sharp, much like the yellow and green snake he had caught in the woods. He hoped they would not be expected to spend too much time together._

_“She is to be your betrothed.” His father had smiled._  

“You haven’t said a word about it,” Aramis’ quiet, serious, voice cut into his thoughts. “On a whim the King’s pardon swept away any chance you might ever have at justice for your brother’s death, not to mention revenge for Milady’s crimes against those she wronged, yourself included. Your loyalty deserved better.”

“My wife is the Mistress of the King himself,” Athos retorted dryly. “Any other man in France would be rejoicing at the opportunities for self-aggrandisement.”

“Whereas you would gladly cast off the responsibilities you do have.” Aramis replied, his tone impossibly gentle. 

Athos turned his head, searching his brother’s face for any trace of censure but saw only compassion and understanding. The arm, which tightened imperceptibly around Athos’ shoulders a further reassurance. And damn Aramis for knowing that physical affection was the one sure way to break through his defences.

“I _left_ this life for a reason,” Athos sighed deeply and tried to imbibe his next words with the plain truth of it. “No possible good can come of returning to it.”

Looking at Athos’ profile, Aramis could see the small lines of pain around his eyes which suggested that his head was still hurting him. He looked pale and tired, weighed down by not just by his body’s physical reaction to the traumas of the last few days, but the emotional burden of being back in this place.

“The villagers think differently.” He offered.

Aramis had no doubt that the Comte de la Fere had been a good Lord, the kind that rewarded his tenants for their labour and their loyalty, who took care of them when they fell sick or became infirm and saw that the bright and gifted were given opportunities to fulfil their potential. And despite what he said, Athos had not left these people voluntarily; he had been driven from this place by grief and despair.

However, the dark look Athos gave him had him swiftly changing tack, knowing full well that, in order to win the war, you sometimes had to pick your battles.

“I need to check Bertram’s wounds,” He announced. “Treville took good care of him yesterday. But the welts will need to be tended daily if they are to heal soundly.”

“Treville’s here?” Athos blinked in surprise, as he turned to face him. He had a sudden flash of Aramis’ voice assuring him that Bertram was in good hands, followed by Treville standing over him, a damp cloth in his hands and worry in his eyes.  “I thought I dreamed that part.”

“He came with us from Paris. And he owes me ten sous.”

“Oh?”

“Treville wasn’t the only one who came with us from Paris.” Aramis smiled. “Our Captain didn’t believe me when I told him you’d trained Roger to stay put.”

There had been little time for discussion. At the sound of a whip cutting through the air, all four men had exchanged a horrified glance and, as one, urged their horses forward. The bark of a musket had only intensified their fear. Knowing that a rider-less horse was  a liability in a battle zone, Aramis had instantly dropped Roger’s reins, trusting to Athos’ patient teaching that he would stand until it was safe to retrieve him. 

“He’s a good horse,” Athos said fondly.

“He is now.” Aramis agreed. “But it took a good man to make him so.”

None of them would ever forget how snappish, skittish and bad tempered Roger had been when they had first seen him. To everyone’s surprise Athos had dipped into his own purse to save the beast from a sure trip to the slaughterhouse, seeing something in the turn of his head and nobility of his bearing worth saving. Using a firm, but gentle, hand, Athos had gradually transformed Roger into the most noble and loyal of steeds.

The utterly bleak look that he received in return almost broke his heart. The musketeer, Athos, was proud of his service to the crown, of the difference he had made in so many lives. He rested secure in the love and respect of his Captain and his brothers. But sitting here in the Inn at Pinon, the Comte de la Frere could only see the many ways in which he had failed in his duty.

“You forget, I met you at your very worst,” Aramis reminded. “And yet you still risked your own life to save that of a stranger.”

“It was hardly a risk,” Athos demurred. “The young Vicomte in question barely knew one end of a sword from the other.”

“And yet the wound in your leg took eight of my very best stitches.”

“I had consumed at least four bottles of wine by that point in the evening,” Athos pointed out. “And I might have stayed to enjoy my fifth if I had realised you really had slept with his wife.”

It was more than a little unfortunate that the cuckolded husband had tracked him down _just_ when he was enjoying the delights of the Inn’s bath tub. None of the other patrons had seen fit to intervene, as he had hopped around in nothing but a towel whilst the very angry, and well-armed, noble stood between him and his only sure means of defending himself.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Aramis said with conviction. “You just can’t help yourself from helping people.”

Athos gave him a baleful look, but did not contradict him. Aramis decided he would count as a victory for now. Giving him a moment he stood up to clear away the now clean tin plate and empty cup, before turning back to his friend.   

 “Ready to face the day?”

“Not even remotely,” Athos said dryly.

But he accepted Aramis’ hand up anyway.


	4. The meaning of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I loved Thomas with all my heart, but sometimes, I wondered ..,” Athos hesitated, before plunging on. “I never knew just how selfless true brotherhood could be until I met you and Aramis.”
> 
> It took all of Porthos’ self-control not to stiffen at Athos’ words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am now trying to work this around what has already happened. Not entirely sure how that will go. But for now Porthos has something to say.

“Athos!” D’Artagnan’s tone became a little less demanding, and somewhat more plaintive as his friend pointedly ignored him, wheeling his horse around and galloping off into the distance. “ _Athos_.”

* * *

“Well, that went well,” Aramis mocked, glaring at his friends, hands on hips. “We spent three days tracking him down, a fourth taking care of his possibly  _life threatening injuries_ and it’s the work of mere moments to lose him again.”

“We didn’t lose ‘im,” Porthos groused, as he swiped a hand over his face, his frustration with Athos still evident in his tone. “He ran out on us.”

“Because you pushed him away,” d’Artagnan retorted hotly, his own guilt at Aramis’ words, _dear God was Athos even fit to ride?_ causing him to lash out at his friend.  “What were you thinking, calling him a coward?”

“Hey, I never said that!,” Porthos corrected sharply, taking d’Artagnan by the collar and pushing him backwards. “I said _if_ I didn’t know ‘im better. Athos is one of the bravest men I’ve ever met. He doesn’t back down from a fight. No matter what the odds, not in all the time I’ve known him.”

He scowled at the Gascon, who simply glared back, giving no ground, as he retorted sarcastically.

“Well, apparently, _thanks to you_ , he just did.”

Porthos sagged slightly at the plain truth of that, releasing his hold on d’Artagnan’s jacket and turning away. If he was honest with himself he was already regretting his blunt approach. He’d hoped to remind Athos of all those times he had stepped up to champion the little people, often against much worse odds than they were facing here. But he had not missed the flash of pain in Athos’ eyes at his words. It seemed as if all he had done was rub salt into an open wound.

“Well, what the ‘ell was you thinking?” He countered. “Bringing up Milady like that? Did you _really_ think that was goin’ to help?”  

Stung by Athos’ refusal to listen to him, d’Artagnan knew he had lashed out. He could not believe the man he so admired would simply stand by and watch anyone suffer. Much less those he was responsible for. But his taunts about Milady’s continued influence had only caused his best friend to look at him, with an expression of hurt mixed with a hint of betrayal.

Athos had given _him_ his forgiveness freely, assuring him that he did not blame the younger man for falling for Milady’s charms. And like a true gentlemen he had never referred to it again, or given d’Artagnan the least reason to feel awkward. But for his part, the Gascon had struggled to let it go, simply not understanding how a man of honour like Athos could still be in thrall to a woman like that.

He wasn’t proud of that. But he wasn’t sure what to do about it either.  

“We none of us can imagine what it’s like for Athos being back in this place,” Treville spoke up. “But these people need help and the Comte de la Fere is the only one who can secure their future.”

“Athos is my sworn brother,” Porthos frowned. “But I ain’t sure I would have cared too much for M. le Comte.”

“They’re the same man.” d’Artagnan pointed out archly.

“Not from where I’m standing.” Porthos huffed.

“Don’t you think you’re both being a little hard on him?” Aramis rocked back on his heels.

“You,” He looked at d’Artagnan. “You’re disappointed he’s not living up to his responsibilities as a Comte. But these people drugged him senseless, dragged him back here against his will and trussed him up like a criminal. A lessor man would have seen them hang. Instead, Athos still protected them from Renard.” 

“And you,” He pinned Porthos with a look. “You expect him to act like a Musketeer. But the rules are different here. He’s not a soldier, he’s their liege Lord. It’s not as if he can just challenge Renard to a duel and be done with it.”

“Why not, if he is so eager to leave this place?” d’Artagnan demanded. “From the sounds of things, he could beat this Renard with one hand tied behind his back.”

“Because, first of all, duelling is illegal, _remember_?” Aramis glanced meaningfully at Treville. “And secondly, this isn’t Paris and Renard isn’t some hot-headed young courtier looking to make a name for himself. The Baron’s name and standing means something here. Athos can’t publically humiliate him like that without inviting repercussions. It’s a question of propriety.”

“What about the Duke of Savoy?” d’Artagnan challenged, not yet prepared to let this go. “The way Porthos tells it, Athos laid him out at the feet of the King himself.”

“That was different,” Treville corrected. “For all that Athos was someone over-zealous, Savoy initiated the challenge and decided the terms. The bout was conducted during a private audience with the King. Not in the full view of the assembled locals, who would be only too happy to spread word of his defeat.”

“So, we just stand by and do nothing?” d’Artagnan demanded, spreading his arms wide, his frustration plain. “If Athos won’t take a stand, these people will be defenceless against Renard’s forces. And, no matter what he’s thinking right now, we all know Athos will never forgive himself for that.”

“First we make a plan to bring home the Innkeeper’s daughter, Jeanne. And then we’ll see what the villagers have by way of weapons,” Treville decided. “When Athos returns we need to be ready to make a fight of it.”

“You think he’ll come back?” d’Artagnan lit up with hope.

“He’ll come back,” Trevlle sighed. “The question is at what cost to himself.”

“I’m going after him.” Porthos suddenly decided. “I don’t care if he takes a swing at me. He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

* * *

Born and raised in the teeming streets of Paris, Porthos had always had a slight distrust of the countryside. Aramis had done his best to teach him all the tricks of his boyhood, scaling trees, snaring game, catching fish and tracking in the woods, but that did not change the fact that Porthos still felt slightly out of his element without a crowd to swallow him up, or an alley to hide in.

Thank providence, an unfortunate episode with some Spanish spies and Aramis chained to a pier with the tide coming in fast, had inspired them all to mark their horse shoes in such a manner that it would seem like nothing more than the usual wear and tear to any casual observer, but allowed the inseparables to track each other with both speed and utter certainty. Even so, when Porthos arrived at a large, secluded, lake glistening in the morning sun, he thought he had misread the trail, until he saw Roger grazing peaceably along the bank and the small pile of clothes, folded neatly on a large flat rock.

“ _Athos._ ”    

He sharp eyes scanned the flat, calm, water, looking anxiously for any sign of movement. With each second that passed without a ripple his worry soared, until he threw himself off his horse and begin to strip out of his jacket and weapons, all the while swearing a blue streak. He was down to his shirt and braies when a dark head suddenly erupted from the still waters, breathing so heavily that he did not notice the lone figure on the shore as he slowly began to swim back. 

Wading into the shallows, Porthos met him halfway, Athos affording him a slightly startled look as he was taken by the arm and marched briskly out of the water until Porthos could push him down, to rest on the flat rock. Hands on hips and scowl firmly in place he looked down at the seated figure, his shirt and braies plastered to his wet skin and his blue eyes wide in his pale face at Porthos’ sudden appearance, like some kind of avenging Angel.

“Were you _tryin_ ’ to drown yourself?” He demanded, fear making his tone sharp.

“I was merely bathing,” Athos looked up at him. “I rather thought I was alone.”

With a sigh, Porthos dropped down beside him. The rock was already warm from the sun’s heat. It would not take long for their linens to dry. Stretching out his legs in front of him, Porthos kept his eyes firmly on the sparkling water.

“We didn’t mean to chase you off,” He offered by way of apology. “D’Artagnan’s right sorry too. It’s been a tough few days tracking you down. Last thing we expected was to find you back here.”

“No-one was more surprised than I was, I can assure you.” Athos said dryly.

“We looked for you,” It was important to Porthos that Athos understood that. “We searched day and night. D’Artagnan wouldn’t eat. Aramis didn’t sleep a wink. Me, I was just trying not to bawl like a baby when I had to go down to the morgue to look at poor some short, pale, bugger, with blue eyes and dark, curly hair who’d had the misfortune of going to meet his maker before his time.”

“I am sorry to have put you to such inconvenience.” Athos said tonelessly

“Inconvenience, he calls it,” Porthos huffed fondly, shifting so that their shoulders were touching. Then, feeling the goose bumps rising on Athos’ damp flesh, despite the heat of the sun, he put an around him, pulling him into his side and absently rubbing at his upper arm. “We were worried sick about you, you daft idiot. We knew something must have happened to you. None of us believed you’d leave without a word. ”

“And yet I did exactly that,” Athos demurred, as he leant heavily into Porthos’ embrace, that simple action alone telling his brother more than words ever could, just how adrift he felt at being forced to return to this place. “I left Pinon without a word, or a thought to the fate of its people.”

“Athos,” Porthos stroked the soft curls now resting on his shoulder. “You’d just had your whole life ripped out from under you. No-one could blame you for needing time to grieve.”

“Six years,” Athos berated himself. “For six years I have lived as if the Comte de la Fere died that that day. Ignoring my duty to the family holdings and my obligation to our tenants, no doubt my father is turning in his grave to see how I have destroyed generations of tradition and service.”

“Rubbish,” Porthos defended roundly. “You’ve done more in the service of France these past six years as a Musketeer than you could ever have done strutting around your lands like some dandy.”

“The villagers would no doubt have a more jaded view of my priorities.” Athos pointed, but there was a hint of amusement underlying his weary tone at Porthos’ robust defence of his choices.   

“That ain’t the way Bertrand tells it,” Porthos countered. “He says the minute Edmond laid hands on one of your people you pulled him bodily off his horse and threw him to the ground.”

“That man was nothing but a brut. He deserved to be taught some manners.”

“Uh huh,” Porthos’ tone was non-committal. “And then, even though you told Renard that you had renounced your title and had no interest in the land, apparently you still insisted on his undertaking that _your tenants_ be left in peace. As the _legal landowner_ Bertram said. So, even before we got here, you couldn’t help yourself, you were already looking out for ‘em.”

“And I did such an admirable job,” Athos scoffed. “Like a blind fool I trusted Renard would keep his word as a gentleman.”

“Nah, you didn’t,” Porthos spoke with the sure knowledge of six years serving at this man’s side. “Maybe you hoped he would be an honourable man, ‘cause then you wouldn’t have to stick around. But if you really believed in him there was nothing to keep you here. ‘Cept instead of leaving, Bertram said you hung around to see what he would do next.”

“When exactly did you have time for all these conversations?” Athos wondered.

“I’m a good listener,” Porthos shrugged. “And you was out of things for a while.”

* * *

_“It’s hardly seemly,” Bertram worried, as he watched Porthos draw up fresh water from the well with which to mop Athos’ fevered brow. “He is our liege Lord. He should not be laid out on a table in the Inn. At the very least we should move him to a bed.”_

_“He’s unconscious, he’s not going to rightly care where he is,” Porthos pointed out, as he rested the bucket on the rim of the well. His expression clouded. “Besides, Aramis says it could be dangerous to move him.”_

_“You care for him a great deal,” Bertram said curiously. “Yet you set no store by his rank or title.”_

_“He’s my brother,” Porthos said simply, turning to look the villager in the eye. “The man I know is a Musketeer. He lives a soldier’s life, with all its hardships, sleeping on the ground, or sheltering in stables, out in all weathers. He never shirks his share of duties. More often than not he’ll take the worst spell of the watch for himself. It’s hard to think he began life alongside empty headed toffs like Edmond.”_

_“I bet he’s never known what it is to go hungry,” A tall, thin, man hovering nearby challenged. “Not to be able to sleep because of the pangs of an empty belly and still expected to do a full day’s work on little more than air.”_

_“Then you’d lose that bet, my friend,” Porthos corrected. “Being a Musketeer ain’t ever no picnic. Athos has faced down hunger, felt his lips crack and bleed from thirst. He’s suffered imprisonment and torture in the service of the King. One bugger even tried to drown ‘im once. He’s lost friends and comrades to war and stood in front of a damn firing squad. Not once, has he ever failed in his duty. He’s a fine man and any that says otherwise will answer to me.”_

* * *

“I used to come here as a boy,” Athos’ pensive voice cut into his thoughts, as he looked around at the lake. “It was one of the few places where I could escape from the ever present company of my tutors, or get out from under the eyes of the servants.”

“Never thought about that,” Porthos frowned slightly. “Must ‘ave been hard, having people watching your every move. Explains why you never had that many friends your own age.”

“As the Vicomte there was always the question of status, it created a distance between me and the other boys,” Athos agreed. “Thomas was the only one who ever dared to tease me, or speak plainly to me.”

“That explains a whole lot.”

Athos had never been one to want to stand on ceremony. He respected Treville because the man wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, even to the King himself. He had been attracted to Anne because she had refused to conform to society’s norms. He was drawn to Porthos, Aramis and even young d’Artagnan because they shared his thirst for adventure and each of them, in their own way, understood what it was to want a different life from the one providence had laid out for them.

“I loved Thomas with all my heart, but sometimes, I wondered ..,” Athos hesitated, before plunging on. “I never knew just how selfless true brotherhood could be until I met you and Aramis.”

It took _all_ of Porthos’ self-control not to stiffen at Athos’ words. In every pain filled nightmare, Athos had always cast himself as the one at fault, castigated himself for his failure to protect his beloved younger brother. It had never occurred to Porthos that Thomas d’Athos might have taken that devotion for granted and taken advantage of Athos’ good nature.

If he wasn’t already dead Porthos might be tempted to kill him himself.

“Aramis and I love you,” Porthos did not think Athos could hear that too often. “The whelp too, and don’t you ever forget it. We only quarrel ‘cause we don’t, none of us, want to see you hurt.”

“I know how much it would mean to you to know something of your own background,” Athos said quietly. “I cannot blame you for thinking me a coward for wishing to wash my hands of my inheritance.”

“Do you even know what it says about you that the Comte de la Fere would care one jot about the good opinion of a half-caste, gutter rat, from the Court of Miracles?” On impulse, Porthos kissed Athos’ curls fondly. “And just for the record, I don’t think you’re a coward. It’s no easy thing having to face up to your past. I was just tryin’ to make you stop and think before you did something you’d regret. I know what you get like when the guilt starts eating at you.”

“I cannot be the man the people of Pinon require,” Athos confessed. “Nothing on earth could induce me to want to return to that life.”

“Then find a way to help these folks help themselves,” Porthos encouraged. “They’ve survived well enough all this time. It was only Renard with his greed and his cruelty that forced ‘em to reach out to you. Take care of ‘im and then find a way for them to protect themselves and you’re home free.”

“Perhaps,” Athos ran his hand through his hair, looking more lost that Porthos had ever seen him. “Although, I doubt it will be that easy. God knows, I am rarely that fortunate.”

“Hey!,” Porthos, nudged him, none too gently. “ _We_ didn’t come all this way to give up without a fight.”

“Renard’s pride has been dented by his forced retreat. He will be ruthless in his revenge,” Athos shook his head. “This is not your fight. I can’t ask any of you to risk your lives.”

“You don’t have to ask,” Porthos said simply. “D’Artagnan’s already all riled up. Aramis loves a good fight. I ain’t about to let a man like Renard get his own way and you should see Treville, he’s practically itching to take command and marshal the villagers. The Baron ain’t gonna know what’s hit ‘im.”

“I owe you all an apology.” Athos sighed. “It has always seemed that that this was my burden to carry alone. To have you here, it is more than I could ever have imagined.”

“That my friend,” Porthos said kindly. “Is how love should work.” 

Predictably Athos snorted softly at his sentimentality. But Porthos’ words also gave him the strength to sit up and swipe at his face, his gaze sharpening as he came back to himself and considered the matter at hand.

“I should probably go to the house. See what remains. If Renard decides to attack it might be more defensible than the village, a place to shelter the women and children, at least.”

Porthos had to swallow hard as he was reminded exactly why he would follow this man to hell and back. Returning to his family home must be the _very_ last thing Athos wanted to do. But even in the midst of his own worst nightmare Athos could not help but look out for everyone but himself.

“Need some company?” He offered.

“Thank you, but no,” Athos shook his head with quiet dignity. “Someone needs to rescue Jeanne from Renard’s clutches and there is no-one I would trust more to accomplish that task than you and Aramis. Treville will need d’Artagnan’s fighting spirt to rally the villagers. I can manage my part alone.”

“Alright” Porthos agreed, knowing that Athos needed a chance to come to terms with recent events. “But don’t forget, _we_ came here for you. We ain’t about to give up on you anytime soon. You can have your time alone, but not too much, do not make us come lookin’ for you. My heart won’t be able to stand it.”

“I will bear that in mind.” Athos smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> If you look too closely at the timeline for this episode Athos does seem to have been out of things for an unconscionable amount of time, especially for a man who has built up sufficient tolerance to alcohol so that he can still shoot, (relatively), straight after three bottles. So, forgive me for taking some liberties with that.


End file.
